


Unhinged

by osunism



Series: Betwixt & Between [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 09:22:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4913989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osunism/pseuds/osunism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Galatea slew the Archdemon atop Fort Drakon, and yet there was no overjoyed feeling of victory afterward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unhinged

**Author's Note:**

> The only story I'll ever write about my Warden. Whatever.

She wanted to leave.

The Archdemon had been dead for a handful of minutes and she was ready to leave. She was so through with all of it; so empty of all the terror and apprehension she felt when she struck the final blow. What if the ritual hadn’t worked? What if she died while Alistair watched the life ebb from her eyes until all was darkness?

She wanted to leave.

Galatea drew in a deep and shuddering breath, trying to keep her blood and dirt-stained hands from trembling. It was Alistair who ran toward her as she climbed off of the husk of the corrupted dragon. It was Alistair who steadied her as she stood once more on solid ground, yet her legs were uncertain and wavering. For once, Alistair’s humor found no outlet and she read the profound relief in his eyes as she took a moment to breathe in the scent of Denerim on fire, and the growing stink of the corpse at her back.

“Let’s go.” She murmured quietly, finding her voice, yet it sounded so small amidst the entire roaring bit that had been in her ears courtesy of the Archdemon. Alistair’s brows went up.

“What? Now? Shouldn’t we…you know…report back to the Queen that all is well and no need to panic?” He wondered and Galatea sighed.

“Andraste’s flaming ass, let them figure it out,” she grated, “can we just…? Alistair, I need to be away from this place. Please.” Alistair’s expression changed in that moment, and there was a silent understanding between the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden. His expression was grave.

“Alright, love,” he said gently, “we’ll go. But we need to at least let the Queen know something. We won’t stay any longer than is needful.” Galatea acceded to his request with a silent nod. With her leaning on him for support, they joined the remainder of their party, and for once there was no banter, only silence. Only the brutal aftermath of the unspeakable terror that had nearly swept a nation.

* * *

Alistair was a man of his word, and when Queen Anora insisted that a fête be thrown to honor the Hero of Ferelden and her coterie of companions, he made mention that he and Galatea could not tarry long, citing their need to rebuild the Grey Wardens here in Ferelden. While it was a partial truth, Alistair sensed that Galatea was well and truly finished with it all. It was in the listlessness of her expression, the emptiness of her smile, the weariness that passed like a shadow over her face, and the way she actively refused to mingle, despite the congratulations. Her only request from the Queen had been to give the Circle autonomy and to be more aware of how the elves in Denerim were treated. Beyond that, she asked nothing for herself, and Alistair wondered if it was humility that kept her from asking, or something else entirely.

They spent one night in the castle, and Alistair took stock of Galatea’s injuries.

“They’re still celebrating, you know,” he was saying, examining the bruises on her back, gingerly touching them with calloused fingertip, “or at least, they were. I fear everyone’s too drunk to remember what they’re celebrating at this point.”

Galatea laughed, and then winced. She turned, partially, to face Alistair. His face was so full of love, open and honest, that it broke her heart. No one had ever looked at her like that before, and she didn’t realize how much she wanted or needed it until they had. She reached up, unbidden, brushing her fingertips against his cheek.

“There’s not food in my teeth is there?” He asked and Galatea laughed again. That was something else she didn’t know she wanted or needed: a man who could make her laugh, even when her soul was ravaged from within to without.

“No,” she murmured, “I just…I just love you is all.” She meant it. Alistair’s smile grew a little and he beamed. Maker, he was so deep in love it was insane to her to consider that she almost allowed herself to die to save the kingdom.

“Well that’s fortunate for me, isn’t it? Otherwise my sitting here, examining your bruised and naked body would be a bit awkward.” Galatea leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and watched his cheeks redden. Slowly, shyly, but with growing confidence, Alistair kissed her back. There would be nothing to match their first kiss, the wonder of it, or the feeling of bonding as he clumsily fit his mouth to hers, but the love only grew. Galatea felt herself growing calmer, and for a brief moment, she forgot the damage done from the trials they’d faced together.

“Where will we go?” He asked her later, as they lay side by side in the great bed. Galatea’s leg draped over his own, her hair spilled in an array of brown and black curls, a rare sight of her being completely undone. Alistair idly played in the silken locks, watching as her hair curled around his fingers.

“To Weißhaupt, I imagine,” she whispered, “where the other Wardens are. Or…we can rebuild the Wardens here. Start anew.” Alistair stared at the ceiling, heaving a sigh.

“I’m sure there’ll be no end to recruits once word of your rather stylish heroics reach the corners of the world.” He teased and she nudged him playfully, “And here I thought you’d be ready to grow old and fat with me, resting on the laurels of our victory for all time.”

“I wish it were that easy.” Galatea laughed. The only humor was the irony in it. Neither one of them would ever grow old, and even now, Galatea heard the omnipresent whisper of the Taint in her blood, the slow, encroaching poison of a cursed destiny. In the silence that followed, she knew Alistair was listening to it as well. How long before they answered? How long did they have before it grew too much, scuttling the insides of their bones like crabs amidst the remains of a shipwreck? How long, how long, how long?

Galatea kissed him, suddenly, heedless of the pain and soreness in her body, of her need to sleep until her weight no longer felt too much to drag about. Alistair was startled at first, but he relaxed, kissing her back.

“Does the thought of rebuilding the Wardens get you that excited?” He asked and Galatea laughed and kissed him again. She didn’t think to give him an answer, not as they pulled apart armor and stays, letting the fireplace burn down to embers as they made love, grateful to be alive in the face of so much death. Galatea leaned down, spilling her hair over one shoulder, kissing Alistair tenderly as she rocked back and forth atop him.

She was gentle, for both their sakes, and there was none of the rushed urgency that had been present in their camp. His hands smoothed up her back, mindful of her bruises, feeling the edge of her blood-soaked bandages. Galatea hissed quietly, both in pain and pleasure, trying to edge her mind into the latter. Alistair groaned, feeling too close for comfort, his hands going to her hips. He couldn’t stop himself, and she didn’t mind as he pumped upward, taking himself toward that glittering edge, the pressure in the base of his spine building and building, his fingertips digging into her skin, feeling old scars, and suddenly it was out of him, and he held her close, hearing her slight yelp of pain as he buried himself within, hissing between gritted teeth, letting out a tremulous sound of relief. Galatea lay still, and the air around them grew cold. She gingerly slid from him, lowering herself to his side.

“I’m sorry.” Alistair said, “The one time the myth of Warden endurance avails me not.” And Galatea buried her head in the pillow and laughed, yelping again as her ribs protested.

“We have plenty of time to test the myth again,” she assured him, “practice makes perfect, after all.”

Alistair smiled at her, quiet and content, and she smiled back, her face pillowed on her arm as she lay on her stomach. For a moment, everything fell away and it was just the two of them. Well, she was the Hero of Ferelden. He was just some man who happened to enjoy tagging along on her adventures.

Ah, but he wasn’t just some man. Not to her. And she wasn’t just the Hero of Ferelden. Galatea’s eyes shut slowly, and he watched as she drifted into a well-earned sleep.

She was everything to him.


End file.
